You Are Not a Verb
The Lesson I Learned Too Late About Boundaries and Burnout
I used to think being a good editor meant never letting a story fall apart on my watch.
If a writer was drowning in doubt, I’d dive in after them.
If a manuscript was slipping through the cracks, I’d grab the edges and pull.
If something needed to be done—anything at all—I did it.
That’s what good editors do, right?
We care. We show up. We save the story.
Until one day, I realized I wasn’t saving stories anymore.
I was trying to save everyone—and losing myself in the process.
The Myth of “Doing It All”
For years, I equated worth with productivity. Love with service.
If someone believed in their book, I believed in them—so fiercely that I’d take their entire project on my back if that’s what it took.
I told myself that believing in a writer’s potential meant carrying their manuscript’s survival.
But here’s the truth I wish I’d known:
Believing in a writer’s potential is not the same as being responsible for their manuscript’s survival.
No one ever taught me to ask, Is this mine to carry?
They only taught me that if I dropped it—even once—I was failing.
The Invisible Skill of Boundaries
When people talk about boundaries, they make it sound like armor.
Something hard, sharp, and easy to wield.
But for some of us, boundaries were never modeled—they feel like weapons pointed at the people we love.
Saying no feels like betrayal.
Saying I can’t feels like cowardice.
Saying this isn’t sustainable feels like failure.
But boundaries aren’t walls.
They’re scaffolding.
They don’t separate you from people—they hold you upright long enough to keep building something that lasts.
Without them, you’re not a sanctuary—you’re a sinkhole.
Eventually, everything collapses under the weight of carrying instead of collaborating.
The Baby Steps of Unlearning
These days, I’m learning in itsy-bitsy steps—how to be present instead of over-functioning.
To listen to my own needs as worthy of attention.
To remind myself that just because I can hold the whole sky doesn’t mean I have to.
And I’m unlearning the reflex that whispers:
“If I don’t do it all, no one will love me, trust me, or think I’m good enough.”
That’s the story I’m rewriting now.
Rest Isn’t a Reward
Somewhere along the line, I realized my entire identity had been tied to a verb.
Doing. Fixing. Producing. Proving.
But I am not a verb.
I’m not “doing” my worth.
I’m not “producing” my belonging.
I’m not “earning” my right to rest, to be slow, to be enough.
Rest isn’t a weakness—it’s resistance.
It’s what happens when you finally learn how to live outside of survival.
And I am.
Slowly. Imperfectly. But I am.
If I could go back 15 years, I wouldn’t tell myself to do less.
I’d tell her this:
You don’t have to disappear to do meaningful work.
You can love people.
You can believe in stories.
And you can still say, “This part isn’t mine to carry.”
And I’d light a candle for her.
Not to show her the way—
but to remind her she’s allowed to sit down and rest in its glow.
